


Counting the Pieces

by Owlship



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: (more or less), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dubious Consent, Everything Hurts, F/M, Forced Pregnancy, Mutual Non-Con, Painful Sex, Pre-Canon, Stockholm Syndrome, Traumatic Bonding, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Varying Levels of Consent, Warning: Immortan Joe, Warning: Organic Mechanic, Whump, would it help if i said i was sorry?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 20:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5980276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlship/pseuds/Owlship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I have a special assignment for you,” Joe says, and when she looks at him his eyes above the grinning mask are gleeful. “You're being... rewarded for your service.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting the Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](http://madmaxkink.dreamwidth.org/1321.html?thread=1420585#cmt1420585) at the kink meme, where Furiosa is ordered to breed with newly-captured Max.
> 
> To the people on tumblr that encouraged me to post this: I hope you're happy. To the rest of you: I am so sorry.
> 
> The tags should, I think, serve as warning enough but if you want clarification on anything please let me know!

“Ah, Furiosa,” Joe says once she enters the chamber, in that particularly grandiose tone that never fails to signal something terrible. “My loyal Imperator.” There's no more than his usual attendants arranged behind him; he's not even fully suited, just powdered. So whatever it was he's summoned her for, it wasn't meant to be public, at least.

Furiosa laces her fingers together and bows her head in a show of piety, schools her face to hide her distaste. “Immortan,” she replies.

“I have a special assignment for you,” Joe says, and when she looks at him his eyes above the grinning mask are gleeful. “You're being... rewarded for your service.”

Dread curls in her gut as she contemplates the many things he might mean. A 'reward' could be anything in the old man's twisted mind, and another special assignment... It wasn't going to be guarding his Wives anymore, she knew that much. Was she going to be sent to Gastown or Bullet Farm to serve there instead?

“It hadn't occurred to me that you might be jealous of my Wives, but of course you're still a woman under it all!”

Furiosa only barely manages to hold back from outright staring in shock at such an incongruous statement. _Jealous_ of his Wives? The last thing on earth she was is jealous of those poor girls, clean air and water be damned. She was damn lucky to escape becoming one of them in the first place; she wouldn't trade what measure of freedom she'd clawed out of the Citadel for anything resembling that cage.

“Organic!” Joe calls, waving out a hand, and the man steps forward from from the doorway behind her, dabbing the bloody corner of his grinning mouth with a rag.

“Had to stick 'im with a tranq,” the Organic Mechanic says, “Fuck-all crazy, but a fighter alright. He'll give you good Pups for sure.” He glances over to Furiosa, leering not as she's grown used to- like he wants her split open on his tables to play with her bloody insides- but like she's some new captive to be assessed.

She locks her limbs in place, because she has an idea of where this is going and if she lets herself she's going to be sick, or fly at Joe and try to kill him despite the guards skulking in the corners, despite the promise she made to the girls.

“I am giving you a Husband so that you can bring forth a new generation of full-life warriors for the glory of the Citadel,” Joe says, “Like my Splendid one is carrying my heir, so too shall you carry his future Imperator.”

“No.” The word slips out entirely unbidden and Furiosa clamps her jaw shut, but he's heard.

“ _No_ ,” Joe repeats, all his false benevolence vanishing instantly, replaced with cold rage, “ _No_? You think you can disobey my orders, ungrateful wretch?”

He strides across the room to her, hair billowing behind him, and Furiosa has to brace herself not to flinch from the rage in his painted eyes. He grips his hand around her throat and she allows it without resisting because if she fights him now then the guards will kill her and everything, all the suffering and planning, will have been for _nothing_.

“You _will_ breed for me,” Joe hisses, fingers digging into her flesh, “Or I will shred your body to pieces and feed it to the Wretched.”

He's not gripping quite so hard that her air is cut off, but her voice is little more than a rasp when she forces out, “I'm not worthy, Immortan.” He releases her throat suddenly and she stops herself from reacting, from reaching up to feel the damage or sagging in relief.

“You will be,” Joe says in reply, voice soft like it's meant to comfort her, and smooths a hand down across her head in a caress that would make any loyal War Boy fawn. “Through your service you will be worthy of Valhalla.”

The very thought makes her sick.

“I was to drive the War Rig for you,” Furiosa says, a little helplessly, “My crew...” If she's shut away in the towers, she's little better off than the Wives. That War Rig was her best shot at escape, the one she's pinned hundreds of days of hope and planning and desperate bloody work on.

“You may continue driving until the Organic confirms that you are with child,” Joe replies magnanimously, seemingly pleased that he can dismiss her concerns as that of a dedicated soldier.

It's too soon, too soon, but she still has a chance. Furiosa ducks her head and salutes again, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming.

“Come along,” the Organic says cheerily, “Come see the breeder we've dug up for you!”

Without seeing any alternative, Furiosa allows him to bring her down to the Skin Shop, every step fueling the hatred she feels. The one thing that hadn't been demanded of her in all her time serving this place, the one part of herself that she thought was safe. How foolish to think it could continue. She wishes she wasn't just planning to flee with the Immortan's treasures, she wishes she was pulling the walls down around her, was slitting his throat and leaving his empire a burning husk behind her.

The Skin Shop is uncharacteristically empty, cleared out no doubt for Joe's special guest. There's only a man strapped down on the metal table, the reek of charred flesh and blood overbearing in the close air. He's not any trader she recognizes, and certainly isn't from the Wretched- his limbs are heavy with muscles, don't bear any signs of sores or lumps. Some wasteland scavenger, then, run down for swinging too close to the Citadel's territory.

“Wild-caught this morning,” the Organic says, rapping a knuckle on the man's prone chest, “Genuine full-life.” He grips the man's slack head to pull it up off the table, his eyes barely open and unfocused. They'd fitted a metal muzzle around his face already. “Pretty, ain't he?” the OM adds with a laugh.

“I can handle things from here,” Furiosa says. If she gets him to her quarters, there's no one to say whether she remains barren for lack of trying or not. The Wives talked about how long it took, and they were kept pampered and safe- surely no one would expect her to become pregnant right away, when she was used to running and fighting and using her body like the weapon it was. Just another hundred days and she'd have the last of the deals in place, could finally leave this place behind.

The Organic shakes his head. “Gotta make sure you're doing it right,” he says, tongue darting out to lick his bloody lip.

She glares at him, “I know what to do.”

“Immortan's orders,” he says smugly, “Wouldn't want you to try and shirk your duty.”

Furiosa lets herself imagine how satisfying it would be to watch his skull cave in under her metal hand, but she sets her jaw instead of lashing out. Fine. She'll rape the man once to satisfy the OM and _then_ bring him to her quarters to be left alone. With whatever drugs are in his system he might not even remember that she's done this.

She moves to stand between the man's legs where they hang off the edge of the metal table, fighting down bile. She's brought women back to the Citadel before, has watched packs of War Boys circle and overwhelm captives without stopping them, but she's never herself taken anyone who didn't want it.

“His leg's busted,” Furiosa points out in a futile attempt at stalling, the metal of the brace strapped around the captive man's leg catching the torch light.

“And _your_ arm's off entirely,” the Organic retorts, “Can't get too picky with full-lives these days.”

She can't help but flex her prosthesis in agitation before steeling herself to actually get started, seeing nothing else she can use to delay. Furiosa reaches out and is surprised to find that the man's hard inside his leathers, prick stiff and hot despite the lack of lucidity in his face.

“Wedding present,” the Organic tells her with a wink. “Had to make sure they worked, anyway.”

The wastelander kicks his unbraced leg dully when she undoes the laces of his trousers, but the straps holding him down are secure. She climbs onto the table so she's straddling him, unbuckles her belt, shoves her own trousers out of the way and ignores the Organic's gaze on her. The faster she gets this over with, the better.

Furiosa is so far from aroused that it burns to take him inside, and she hisses out in pain as his skin drags against hers until she's fully seated on his cock, feeling as if she might tear herself open. It's better that it hurts, she thinks. Below her the man makes some low wordless noise, arms flexing against the chains holding them down.

She braces her hands against the table and starts moving her hips, eyes sliding shut as she pretends she's elsewhere doing something else, anything else. With any luck the wastelander will shoot off quickly and spare the both of them much more.

“That's it,” the Organic says encouragingly and her eyes snap open to send the most forceful glare she can muster his way. One of his hands is hidden behind his apron, the other petting over the chained man's head, and she clenches her hands against the table in disgust.

Even though Furiosa doesn't want it, after only a few strokes her body catches up to the fact that there's some form of sex happening, lubricating and heating until she's biting her cheek again to focus on the pain rather than the dull pulse of unwanted arousal. Her movements become easier with slick to ease the way, the man underneath her twitching and flexing and making quiet noises that she makes no effort to decipher.

“What a natural,” the Organic says, “Should'a had you with the breeders back from the start.”

Furiosa bares her teeth at him in a useless threat, wishes she could repeat the performance that had spared her that fate- she'd fought hard enough to break bones, then, earned herself the safety of being battle fodder. But she can either fight now, knowing it's futile and will only foul her chances at escape, or she can endure this to free herself. Not even a hundred days left, she tells herself as she focuses on the way the edge of the metal table digs into her flesh hand. She just has to keep surviving.

The wastelander finally comes, spilling wetly inside of her and Furiosa pulls off as quickly as she can, leaving a smear of white cum against her thigh where he wasn't quite finished. “Satisfied?” she bites out, drawing her trousers back up her hips to cover herself, uncaring that the seed will dry and stick to the leather.

“Ecstatic,” the OM purrs, “I'll be checking to make sure you're fucking him proper, so have fun, Imperator.”

Of course they'll check, Furiosa realizes with a lurch. Fuck. Horror roars through her thoughts as she tries to think of excuses; they'd dosed the scav up for this, maybe he couldn't have sex ordinarily; maybe she could mutilate him- or herself, since they'll only find a replacement if she damages him. It might even be worth it.

Furiosa nods absently as the wastelander is ordered to be sent up to her quarters. She retreats to the garages, stopping in a shaded alcove to scrape as much cum out of herself as she can manage, fingers shaking, trying very hard not to be sick.

  
  


Ace can tell there's something off about her and Furiosa hates him for it, hates that she slipped up and let herself be known even a little bit to her crew. They won't be coming to the Green Place with her anyway, she should have known better than to build comradery. She pulls her Imperator rank around her like a cloak, becomes hard and imposing again, becomes untouchable chrome.

  
  


The drugs must have worn off while she was away. Furiosa opens her door and sees the wastelander strung up by chains at the head of her bed, tethered to a ring set into the wall, eyes glittering angrily as the light of the hallway washes over him.

He thrashes ineffectually in her direction as she closes the door behind her, hampered by the chains around his wrists.

She lights the kerosene lamp on her workbench, though she usually leaves it unlit to navigate by the moonlight her sliver of a window lets in. On the top of her work surface is an unfamiliar key that Furiosa assumes belongs to the chains wrapped around him.

“I'll untie you if you won't attack,” she says. There's no way to know how much he remembers- his eyes hadn't seemed to focus the entire time she was in the Skin Shop with him, but then, she'd had her own eyes shut for some of it.

“Fuck you,” he replies, voice a dry rasp.

She doesn't flinch at his choice of invective. Furiosa nods, starts unbuckling the straps of her prosthesis, the metal and leather heavy after a long day. “If you piss the bed you're the one lying in it,” she tells him, settling onto the rickety stool in front of her workbench.

The wastelander looks at her suspiciously, hands still fighting the pull of the chains. Furiosa deliberately looks away from him to reach for her prosthesis' cleaning kit, intending to spend the night breaking it down and doing maintenance.

It was ordinarily a soothing task, checking that everything was still working, looking for improvements to make, but she can hardly focus on it with the breathing of a second person in the small room, the clanking of chains as the man shifts restlessly, the occasional painful twinge when she shifts the wrong way to remind her of what she's done.

Dawn comes soon enough, but instead of simply slipping back into her prosthesis and returning to the Chop Shop, she's interrupted by a knock on her door. It's unusual enough to make her grip the screwdriver in her hand like a weapon, before she remembers the OM's promise to “check” and the tool slips away to clatter against the ground as horror buffets her.

Furiosa opens the door and see the Organic grinning at her, waggling a metal speculum in his hands. “Mornin',” he says.

She nearly shuts the door in his face, only the knowledge that doing so would result in her being at best trapped and at worst terribly punished staying her hand. Instead she pulls it the rest of the way open and begrudgingly allows him inside the small room, glad at least that the assistant trailing behind stays in the hallway.

The Organic raises an eyebrow at the wary wastelander, hunched in on himself with as much slack in the chains as he could manage. “You doin' your wifely duty?” he asks her, his tone already telling her he certainly doesn't think so.

“He couldn't get it up,” Furiosa says, lifting her chin defiantly and hoping the lie is enough to earn her another day.

The OM shakes his head, “We know the plumbing works. Feral like that, he should be raring to go. Maybe you _don't_ know what you're doing, eh?”

The attempt at insulting her is laughable, and she only glares at him.

“Go on, show me what you tried,” the Organic says. Furiosa glances at the tense wastelander, doesn't know if he's picked up the thread of conversation but is sure enough that he's going to lash out if she makes any move to get near enough to touch.

After a moment of waiting for her, the OM smirks a little. “Thought so,” he says, and turns to the cracked-open doorway to call out “Zyg!” His assistant scuttles into view, wide-eyed at being allowed inside an Imperator's room.

“Get the feral's legs strapped down, we don't want him kicking,” the Organic instructs before turning back to Furiosa, leaning in close enough that she can smell the old dried gore on his clothes. “Now, you have a choice here,” he says, voice loud over the noise of the wastelander struggling, “You can do as ole Joe says and get to keep playing your little war games in the meantime.” The OM pauses to lick his lips, tongue worrying at the cut from the day before. “Or I can have you strapped to a bench to be bred like the bitch you are.” His eyes rake over her and she knows exactly which option he'd prefer.

Furiosa clenches her hand tightly, nails digging into the flesh of her palm, and tries to remember that it's going to be worth it. That she just has to hold out long enough through this fresh torture to secure her freedom.

“He's down,” the assistant says, and Furiosa glances over to see the wastelander's legs tied to the posts of her pallet, body thrashing as he attempts to get free.

“Your move,” the Organic says, stepping aside with a grand sweeping gesture.

“I don't like an audience,” Furiosa says tightly, trying to wrest some semblance of control back from the situation. She'll have to rape the man again, that much is clear- but she doesn't want the humiliation of being watched, doesn't want the Organic Mechanic's eyes on her.

“I suggest you finish 'im off before I get here next time, then,” he says with a dismissive shrug. “Get to.”

The chains are short enough that the wastelander can't reach out and grab her, and secure enough that he's not likely to pull them free if he hasn't managed it already. Already his wrists are rubbed red and raw, just on the verge of bleeding.

“Don't,” he grits out when Furiosa kneels on the edge of the pallet besides him. She thinks about suggesting he not fight it- but it won't matter, and she knows if instead of a proverbial gun to her head their situations were reversed she would be fighting just as hard. “Don't,” he repeats, “ _No_.”

She has to ignore him, ignores his thrashing and the stares of the Organic at her back as she undoes the fly of his trousers and pulls out his cock, soft and limp. She picks a spot on the mattress to stare at as she starts moving her hand over the skin of it, until even against his protests it's flushed hard enough with blood for her to take inside.

“You should be grateful, feral,” the Organic says, taunting the both of them as Furiosa shoves down her trousers and arranges herself over the man, “Not many scavs get such hospitality.”

It's worse than it was the day before. She's still raw from then and this time the burn is worse, almost unbearable even if his prick isn't fully hard. Below her the wastelander's stopped struggling, lies stock-still, and Furiosa hopes that he's not going to try and stop himself from coming.

It's worse knowing that he's awake for it, rather than drugged-out. She closes her eyes tightly as she feels his cock filling out the rest of the way so she can't see his reaction- if he's been out in the wastes for very long, he might even be _enjoying_ himself.

Again her body responds to the friction and heat of it, getting her just wet enough to take the edge off the burn of him insider her cunt. It probably feels better for him, Furiosa thinks distantly, hoping it's enough for him to come even as sick as the thought makes her.

His hips twitch up into her just a little and she tenses, thinking that if he starts participating eagerly she's going to be sick. But the goal is for him to come so she grinds her teeth together and keeps moving, until finally the wastelander makes a low noise not unlike a sob and spills inside her.

Furiosa almost retches but she pulls away, snapping her eyes open to glare at the Organic. “Now leave,” she says, voice tight with rage and disgust.

“I'll be back tomorrow,” he says with a smug smile, cuffs his assistant across the back of the head to get him to stop staring and head out of the room.

Furiosa lurches to bolt the door behind them and then collapses against the reassuring metal of it, breathing heavily. She can feel a line of slimy cum trail drip out of her and she pounds her fist against the door hard enough to hurt, shouts hoarsely in rage and humiliation, not caring that the noise of it echoing down the hallway will spur the Organic on.

As before, she digs her fingers into her cunt to scrape away as much seed as she can, hoping it doesn't take root, before pulling her leathers back up as if being covered will make any of it better.

She forgets that the wastelander is even still in the room until she opens her eyes again, tears successfully fought back from falling. She won't give this place the satisfaction of having her waste water over this.

He's still watching her with anger, but also confusion. Probably thought it would only be him getting used, not the both of them.

“I'll untie your legs,” Furiosa says, forcing her voice to be steady. “When I undo the chains, you can try to run. They'll probably catch you, but you can try.”

She doesn't even care if he attacks her. The rope around his legs is pulled tight from all the struggling, the knot impossible to work undone even when she uses her teeth for leverage. She grabs the knife tucked under the mattress and slices through it instead, dully surprised when the wastelander doesn't immediately kick out to bash her head in.

He curls up instead, knees drawn up to protect his soft underbelly.

Furiosa retrieves the key that had been left for her, finds that it unlocks the manacles but not the muzzle. Of course not, she thinks.

“You'll have to file it down,” she tells him, holding out a rasp for him to take once the cuffs are off.

He doesn't take it from her, eyes moving distrustfully from the file in her hand to her face, like he's not sure why she's offering it after what she's just done. “Well?” she asks, “Don't you want that thing off your face?”

“Why're you,” he says, gestures vaguely as if that helps her understand his meaning.

“Why am I what,” she demands, tossing the rasp down onto the mattress next to him because he won't just take the fucking thing, “Letting you go? Because maybe you'll make it. Raping you? Because I've been- I have to- they want me to _breed_. To spawn more soldiers for his fucking army.”

Furiosa wonders why it feels so much different than killing. She's ended the lives of countless people under orders or out of desperation or a need for revenge or for just being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and never thought it made her any less human. But now she feels monstrous, feels like an animal, a thing; like she's been reduced to the basest parts of herself in a way that even a thousand days of being a devout War Boy hadn't managed.

“I'll be gone until sunset,” she says, turning to gather her prosthesis up off the workbench and cinch the strapping reassuringly tight. If he's smart he'll raid her room for weapons and supplies before leaving, but she doesn't care much.

  
  


The garages are deafening and crowded and overly bright, and Ace's silent concern from the day before continues unabated by her foreboding demeanor. Eventually Furiosa snaps, chafing under his worry and awareness until she clamps her metal hand around the lumps covering his neck, demands that he focus on his work or find a new crew.

He looks startled and hurt, and she never should have let herself work with the crew as closely as she's done, should have been content letting them die every run and get replaced like the battle fodder they were meant to be. But working so well together was how she'd been assigned the War Rig in the first place, was how she secured that part of her plan.

Furiosa releases Ace and crawls inside the heart of the Rig, between her two beating engines, and works until the ache in her fingers is worse than the ache between her legs.

  
  


What surprises her is opening her door at the end of the day to see the wastelander still there. Her room is fairly well trashed, as she expected, a good number of the weapons she's stashed away spread out on the floor where he's sitting, back against the stone wall, muzzle thankfully off.

“You didn't run,” Furiosa says needlessly in greeting, and suddenly wonders if despite his earlier protests he'd decided that staying and getting fucked on a regular basis was a better deal than returning to the wastes. Wasn't like he would be the one to carry any baby that formed, after all. Her stomach roils at the thought.

“Mm,” he replies, and flicks his hand to indicate the door behind her. “There were... skeletons.”

“War Boys,” she says, and he shrugs a shoulder, dismissing the distinction.

“But you,” he says, hands twitching over one of the guns, holds it up high to aim at her, “You can leave.”

So that was his angle. Some of the tension leaves her; a man negotiating his way to escape Furiosa could handle. The gun wasn't even much of a threat- if he shot her, he'd be exactly where he was before, only with a pack of War Boys on the lookout for whoever killed one of their Imperators. He'd been lucid enough to know not to run blindly, he was probably lucid enough to know that killing her now would be an equally bad idea.

“I've been trying to leave for a long time,” she tells him tiredly. There wasn't any point in playing dedicated Imperator with this wastelander- why should she pretend to love and obey her captors when she was as desperate to escape as he was?

His face wrinkles in confusion, eyes flicking around the room before resettling on her. “What's stopping you?” he asks.

“Same thing that stopped you,” Furiosa says, because being perfectly honest- that she had lost herself beyond even the need for survival for a long stretch of time, had let the cult invade her brain until she _wanted_ to serve- would hardly win her the man's confidence.

And there was an idea forming in her mind, one that hinged on his cooperating. She had planned on getting the War Rig and the girls away by herself, but a second set of hands... He was healthy, else he wouldn't have been foisted on her with the goal of spawning more full-lives, and feral or not he'd survived the wastes well enough to maintain that health.

He doesn't look anywhere near convinced by her statement.

“What was your plan?” she asks him, ignoring the gun and settling down on her rickety stool. “Have me walk you down to the base, let you go?” Furiosa lays her prosthetic hand against the work surface and flexes it open and closed; some adjustments had to be made while she was wearing it. “If no War Boys take notice you could live with the Wretched, maybe, or try your luck walking away- I don't recommend it, personally. The Citadel has the only clear water around for miles, and we've scavs pushing the edges constantly.”

She glances over at him, sees that he's lowered the gun a bit, face stony.

“So maybe you're hoping I can get you a set of wheels. Problem there is,” she pauses to lay her weight against one of the hydraulic actuators, damn thing always gummed up after a day of blackthumb work, “all the vehicles are kept up here, away from said Wretched and scavs. You need a good reason to take one out, and a feral with a gun to my head just doesn't qualify.”

She's fairly well liked, probably someone would jump the wastelander and take him out; they also might let him blow her brains out and hope to be promoted in her place. Either way, she already knows how hard it is to order a car sent to the base out of schedule, even with her current rank.

“Once you're out and you have a car,” Furiosa says, slides her eyes away from her work to his face, intending to make a point. “They caught you once, and now you have something that belongs to them. To _him_.”

The muscles in the man's face flex as he clenches his jaw tightly. “You've thought about it,” he says.

“I've _tried_ ,” Furiosa corrects. There's no need to hold her tongue here, with some wastelander who clearly holds no allegiance to the Citadel, and she has dozens of attempts under her belt, countless more planned and dreamed but never acted on.

His expression turns thoughtful, suspicious almost. “You still trying?”

Even though there's no one to hear, Furiosa still can't help the urge to glance around and check that they're alone, because it was one thing for a homesick War Boy to make a few dashes when they were still green, and completely another for what she has planned. “I'm working on it,” she replies.

The wastelander regards her for a moment before nodding, gun finally lowered back to the floor completely. “Tell me,” he says.

She leaves out everything about the Wives, about where specifically it is that she's headed, and instead sketches out the basics of the plan. The War Rig, as steadfast a vehicle as can be hoped for, the tank full of water and produce enough to live off, to trade. War Boys as unwitting protection against the unpredictable Buzzards. A deal for safe passage through the mountains, beyond which it was only a matter of time for whatever pursuers might have made it through to give up.

The wastelander listens without saying anything, nodding thoughtfully to himself now and again. “You think it'll work?” he asks when she's finished.

“It's the best shot I'll ever have,” she tells him, because it is. If this fails, she'll be lucky to be killed- there won't be any more chances for her. Furiosa doesn't let herself think about the new and terrible time limit she's now under, the extra pressure. She would have said that death was assured for failure, but she's no longer sure that will be the case.

“And you'll take me along,” the man says, not quite a question but something short of an order. His fingers twitch like he wants to grab the gun again, but he lets it lie.

“If you help,” Furiosa replies steadily. A second set of hands would be useful, and it would be easy enough to find an excuse for him to be in the Rig that day, but she has no compunctions about leaving him behind if he proved anything less than an asset.

“How long?” he asks, “If they want you- us- to...” He trails off, hunching back into himself, still looking not pleased at all with the idea of breeding but about as disgusted as she feels. It's a particularly cold comfort.

“I'm meeting with the Rock Riders at the full moon,” she says, throttling down the surge of nausea as she thinks about how much time it's going to take, how long she'll have to keep up with this before the Organic grows bored of checking. “Unless they've changed their demands again that takes care of them. The next trade run is too soon, we have to wait for the one after, in eighty days.”

Furiosa lets herself clamp her metal hand down hard, looking at it instead of the man as she images the sharp edges of it digging into flesh that was no longer there. “The Organic Mechanic will keep checking that we're following orders,” she says, voice carefully devoid of emotion. “But if I get pregnant, they'll take me off the Rig for good.”

She knows that there are ways to avoid it, herbs to take- but she wasn't old enough to learn that lore before she was taken, even if she was able to find ways to get any without suspicion. And if she avoids fucking the wastelander entirely, she'll just be forced to anyway with the Organic watching.

“And he,” the man says, “He'll make us? If we don't already.”

Furiosa nods, bitter black hatred welling up fresh in her again. She doesn't need to tell him that the OM gets off on it, that he revels in having people broken and abused under his power.

She hears the wastelander shift in place, flicks her eyes over to see with a small measure of relief that he still doesn't look eager.

“We trick him,” he says with a nod, his own gaze averted from hers. “If there's...” he twirls a hand vaguely, “around, he'll think.”

There's no way to know if it'll be enough to fool the Organic, but it's eminently preferable to the risks of actually fucking. Furiosa nods in resignation.

  
  


The wastelander curls up in the corner with her spare blanket and Furiosa shuts her eyes and wills herself to sleep, hand wrapped tight around the knife under her pillow like he might attack _now_.

When morning breaks there's no way to tell when the Organic will be by, but she assumed it will be early.

The man hunches in on himself while she turns away, jerks himself until he's spilled. The cum is warm from his body when she scrapes it off his fingers, sticky and slimy and almost enough to make her sick. She's slept with men before and never thought much of their seed one way or another- but now it's no better than a weapon, a threat against not just her plans but the integrity of her body. Furiosa smears her stained hand around her vulva with a repressed shudder, hoping the ruse works.

The Organic arrives with his smug grin, draws up short when he sees the wastelander no longer chained and muzzled but lurking in the corner of the room. Furiosa thinks she sees a flicker of fear at the man being unrestrained, but he smothers it well.

“Enjoying the honeymoon?” he asks.

Furiosa keeps her face impassive, “I've done as the Immortan asked.”

The Organic Mechanic snorts in amusement. “I'll bet. Go on, show me. Drop 'em.”

She clenches her jaw against the humiliation of it and lowers her trousers enough that the cum matted in her pubic hair can be seen.

“Well well, and fresh too,” the OM says, “Ain't that a sight.” His eyes return to her face and he smirks. When Furiosa moves to pull her leathers back up he shakes his head. “Gotta be sure,” he says, and waggles the same speculum from the day before at her. “On the bed, now.”

The bottom of her stomach drops away, all the muscles in her body going rigid as she stops herself from launching herself at him. “No,” Furiosa says, “I've already done as ordered.”

“I'll be the judge of that,” the Organic says. In his corner the wastelander make some noise, angry, that has the OM jerking around in poorly-concealed alarm. If _he_ attacks the Organic... But no, he was her property- she would be held as responsible as if she was the one doing the damage. “I put a muzzle on that thing for a _reason_ ,” he tells her.

Furiosa catches the man's eye, his face tense and angry, and shakes her head. It's not worth it. As satisfying as it would be to kill or even just maim the Organic, doing so would ruin her- _their_ \- chances at escape.

He bares his teeth in a grimace but subsides, settles for crossing his arms over his chest, glowering rather impressively.

“Jealous, feral?” the Organic sneers at him, before turning back to Furiosa. “On the bed and let's see if your stud has bred you proper, bitch.”

She doesn't bother to restrain her glare but reluctantly sits on the edge of the mattress, pulls down her trousers until he's satisfied with the angle her legs are spread at. The Organic Mechanic's fingers run over the folds of her cunt proprietorially and she barely restrains herself from kicking out, from snapping her legs shut.

Furiosa clenches her hand and imagines all the things she'd like to do to him, given the chance. He stabs his finger inside her hole without warning, rough and dry, and she winces at the flash of soreness.

“Awful dry in there,” the Organic says, feeling around with a smug grin, and she goes tense all over. After a moment he replaces his finger with the speculum, cold and metal and painful as it pushes inside, ratchets it apart to hold her open. He takes an electric torch and shines it down into her, tsks loudly at what he sees.

“Empty,” he says victoriously, and that combined with how he yanks the speculum out without shrinking it back down has Furiosa unable to hold back a pained, resentful noise. “You'll have to do better than that if you want our Immortan to be satisfied.”

She does kick out at him then, humiliated and angry and uncaring of whatever consequences it might bring, but it doesn't connect solidly enough to do more than have him grin down at her.

“Was my fault,” the wastelander says suddenly, startling the both of them. The Organic turns to him skeptically and he continues, “I was excited. Couldn't wait.”

“Is that so,” the OM says, voice dripping with skepticism. Then he glances back at Furiosa, legs clamped shut and eyes murderous, and tilts his head in consideration while he spends a moment raking his gaze over her. “Get it right next time,” he says over his shoulder to the wastelander, then fixes his eyes on Furiosa's face.

“Keep it up,” he says quietly, “I'm just waiting for an excuse to get you on that bench, breeder.”

She doesn't hold herself back from spitting on his gloating face, waste of water or no. The Organic only grins like he's won, brings the same hand that he'd had on her cunt up to wipe the spit, lick it into his own mouth.

“See you lovebirds tomorrow,” he says to the room at large, jauntily waving the speculum in farewell as he leaves.

Furiosa doesn't yell this time, just forces herself to take deep breaths until the red leaves her vision. She pulls her trousers back up, fastens her belt in place, and wishes it was so easy to piece herself back together.

  
  


Her crew is subdued from the day before, stay well out of her way as they see to their tasks. Even though the War Rig is her main priority- her only priority, really- and given special attention by everyone, she can't devote all her time to it without arousing suspicion. The smaller convoy vehicles need more maintenance since they see more frequent use, anyway.

There's a busted-up rig being fixed in one of the smaller workshops that she realizes must have been captured around the same time as the wastelander, might even have been his. Even salvaged, it has good bones and a shine V8, the sort of thing that part of her will always want to say is wasted on a feral scav.

Furiosa turns her back on where they're stripping away the last of the paint and rust, focuses on the timing belt in Elvis that keep slipping.

  
  


She remembers to bring food for the wastelander back with her that night. There was some hardtack stored away in her room that Furiosa figures he's probably found, since he hadn't demanded to be fed, but it'll run out soon enough.

The guns are spread out in front of him again as they were the day before, but this time there's a rag and a barrel-brush and her canister of oil, so it seems he's made himself useful. Or, at least, decided to keep his hands busy.

If she's going to bring him with her, it makes sense to start taking him down to the garages with her during the day, so his appearance the day of the trade run isn't marked. She doesn't know what her crew will make of it- he's clearly not a War Boy, after all- but sneaking him and the Wives aboard at the same time is asking for trouble.

Furiosa trades the man the half-assembled glock in his hands for a tin of mealworms. He eats like he's been starving far longer than a day or two, which seems unlikely given the amount of meat on his frame, but even with a steady source of rations, she can't shake the haunting hunger either.

It occurs to her that he probably has a name. He hasn't offered one, but then, she hasn't asked.

She thinks about asking now, when the room's dark but for moonlight and they could almost be just strangers sharing space for a time, but she can't stop thinking about how they'll have to “get it right” for tomorrow's inspection. Maybe it's better not to know the man's name.

  
  


In the morning before the Organic arrives Furiosa strips off her trousers, lays back, and lets the wastelander come inside her while she closes her eyes and tries to hold in a scream. He used his hand on himself until he was nearly finished, and slicked himself with spit so it didn't burn the way it had the first two times, and if anything that sliver of mercy makes it worse.

He retreats as soon as he's spilled, expression a mix of angry and apologetic, some shade of what might be sadness. Hardly the face of a man who's just enjoyed himself, and she clings to the knowledge that he wants to be here as little as she does.

The Organic Mechanic, by contrast, looks as if it was him who just fucked her, all smug smiles and leers as he probes her cunt harshly.

“You'll be pupped in no time,” he tells her, finally pulling back. Furiosa wants to retch at the thought. She had once _wanted_ to be a birth mother, back before she was taken from the Green Place, but now the idea is unbearable to even consider. Breeding like this, just so whatever child she births can become another soldier for Joe- it's the opposite of everything she's ever wanted.

The Organic doesn't leave, this time. Furiosa pulls her trousers back up and hates that it means she can't scrape the cum out of herself yet, but he's a busy man- if he's staying, it's for a purpose.

“Put a leash on your pet,” the OM says, “We're taking him for walkies.”

She glares at him. “He's a person,” she points out, and he shrugs.

“If he bites, it'll come out of your hide,” the Organic says lazily. “Joe wants you and your breeder with the others at the Big Hall. Gonna make a big to-do about it, now that you're finally cooperating.”

Furiosa clamps down fiercely on the pulse of horror that shoots through her. Of course Joe would turn this private humiliation into a public spectacle.

“Fine,” she replies tightly, “Now get out.”

“Noon,” the Organic tells her cheerfully, “Try skipping and I'll get you all to myself.”

Furiosa slams the door behind his back as soon as he's gone, pictures all the many ways she wants to kill the medic as she lets her forehead slump against the metal. Well, at least she won't have to worry about how to introduce the wastelander to her crew, now. The thought is so absurd considering the situation that it startles a weak shiver of laughter out of her, shaky and harsh, that goes on for entirely too long.

  
  


There's no single area in the Citadel that can house all the War Boys and War Pups at the same time, and the outside was hardly a venue worth considering. The Big Hall could fit a surprising number, when they packed in tightly, and whoever wasn't able to squeeze in or was too sick would hear the details later even if it meant they missed seeing the Immortan Joe in the flesh.

Furiosa had once stood among the throng of bodies below her now and wished to be up on the raised stage section, flanking the Immortan himself. By the time she finally did make Imperator, the shine of the idea had long since worn away.

Behind the other Imperators are women in various states of dress to match the wastelander behind her, as she expected. Not pretty or whole or young enough for Joe to take as _his_ Wives, but close enough to full-life to satisfy his new scheme. Most look scared, or resigned, but one or two seem pleased by their new situation.

The speech is long, and grand, and starts off with Joe having a just-noticeably-pregnant Angharad emerge from a side corridor, the Organic Mechanic trailing with a plastic air filter. Angharad looks as radiantly defiant as always, head held high while Joe waxes poetic about the supposed son she's carrying.

Furiosa catches her eye by mistake more than design, shares a fleeting look of deep and utter horror.

Then Joe explains that he has given his Imperators Wives of their own, so that their children may serve his son as faithfully as they have him. Furiosa keeps her face impassive, eyes automatically seeking her crew among the crush of painted bodies, stomach turning at the awe she sees in their faces.

  
  


It's weak of her, but Furiosa brings the wastelander back to her quarters rather than have him along when she returns to her crew. He seems relieved to be away from the press of eyes anyway, if she's any judge of things.

The core of her crew are ostensibly working on lancing drills on back of the War Rig like usual by the time she returns to the garage. She braces herself for their comments but they still sting, hearing what to her is a violation and a punishment spoken of like a reward.

“Pretty shine that you'll be forging a new Imperator yourself,” Ratchem says admiringly.

“You won't be going to live with the breeders, will you?” Krank wants to know.

“Wonder why they ain't given her Prime or Rougut to do the job instead'a that feral?” Sprockets says, just loud enough for her to hear.

“Can you even imagine what sort of Pup _two_ Imperators would make?” Morsov replies, and the both of them turn to regard her with near-identical looks of thoughtful awe on their faces.

Furiosa does her best to ignore the remarks and questions, directing her focus on the day's work. Only Ace says nothing about it at all, backs her up in a slightly more subdued manner than she's used to as they get the Boys to stop chattering and focus on running their training exercises. She doesn't try to decipher the look on his face, sure he's turning over the last few days of behavior in his mind and piecing it together and equally sure she doesn't want to know what conclusion he's coming to.

  
  


The next morning the cycle repeats itself again. The wastelander makes himself come inside of her and looks just as tortured about it as before, the Organic probes and leers, and Furiosa scrapes herself as empty as possible the second she's able.

“You might as well come to the garage,” she tells him once she's put herself back together. “If the crew's used to you, no one will care that you're there the day we leave.”

The wastelander hums and nods his head, trails behind her silently through the halls. The one advantage of having him “introduced” is that no one questions her about why he's following, why he isn't chained up in the Blood Shed or on the Treadmill or out with the Wretched. She gets plenty of curious stares, whispers that she forcefully ignores, but no one tries stopping her.

The bristling War Rig is a welcome sight, blacker than her sin and twice as mean. The wastelander makes a quiet noise, says appreciatively, “That's your rig?”

“That's her,” Furiosa replies, a tinge of pride in her voice. The Rig wasn't her design originally, but she'd been bare bones compared to the beast she is now. If any vehicle was going to succeed in carrying her away from this hell-hole, it was going to be this one.

“Boss!” Ratchem says, then skids to a halt on whatever he was about to say in order to peer at the wastelander curiously. After a moment he seems to remember what it was he meant to say. “We found the leak in tire six,” he tells her brightly.

“Show me,” Furiosa says, already walking over to inspect the tire herself. It had been a slow leak, and with so many wheels not enough to stop the Rig dead anyway, but there's no sense to be had in letting it go unfixed.

The presence of the wastelander goes mostly unremarked on as the day progresses. He occasionally mumbles a comment about some aspect of the Rig as he watches them work, sharp enough for her to be sure he knows what he's talking about, until she gives him a spanner and sets him to work. It makes sense that a lone road warrior would have to be his own blackthumb, compared to all the dedicated lancers and drivers she deals with, but it still makes her feel more confident about including him in the escape plan.

  
  


Four days after Joe's announcement, the Organic Mechanic doesn't show up at her door. Furiosa waits, and waits, and finally scrapes herself clean and retreats to the garage because- he hadn't shown up to check, and she'd still had to have the wastelander fuck into her.

The next morning he's there and grinning, as if she wouldn't know he'd try and get her off guard. The OM looks mildly disappointed, like he really thought it would be that easy, but then his smile brightens when he mentions her getting pregnant that much sooner.

A measure of days past that, the wastelander very tentatively suggests that if it has to happen, maybe he could try and make it feel good, for her. Furiosa kicks him away the second the words are out of his mouth, regrets that she doesn't have the weight of her metal arm strapped in place to smash his head in.

“Don't touch me,” she says, drawing herself up close.

He nods, hands held where she can see them like he's proving he won't, but says, “It hurts you. And it. It doesn't have to.”

Except it doesn't really hurt that way anymore. He always makes sure he's as slick as possible before entering her for the few thrusts he takes to finish, and her damn traitorous body has started getting hot and wet just from watching him stroke himself, like it _wants_ him inside her cunt.

“It's not sex,” Furiosa tells him, “It's _rape_ , and I don't want it to _feel good_.”

The wastelander blinks and ducks his head, says just above a mumble, “It just. Doesn't seem fair.”

His eyes are averted from her, and she's reminded of the fact that whether they're pathetic or not, he's getting an orgasm a day out of this. Furiosa wonders if it's making him forget that he's being forced into this as much as she is, if it's making him soft.

  
  


Her blood comes right before the moon reaches full, and it's such a relief that Furiosa finds herself smiling as she cleans herself up, heart lighter than it has been since the edict came through. The Organic scowls when she tells him, scowls more when he confirms it, but it's not as if he can stop nature.

“You'll be right back to it once your monthly's done,” he instructs, “The Immortan is very eager to hear of your pregnancy, you know.”

  
  


The night of the full moon she has her meeting with the Rock Riders. Furiosa leaves the wastelander in the room- he certainly won't be any asset for this- and treks out to the buried scrap-engined bike she has hidden just for such trips. The Buzzards were rarely out during the night, thankfully, and she knows the route least likely to stir up what few might have been lurking.

The Rock Riders try to insist on more guzz, but she holds them to their deal. Her Rig safely through the pass, the rocks dropped behind her, and they'll have enough guzzoline to fuel their bikes for a few hundred days, easy.

The chief shakes her hand when they agree, skin-to-skin, and Furiosa feels nothing but satisfaction.

She'll have to have the wastelander hide out of sight, since she hadn't wanted to upset the balance of the deal by mentioning a passenger, but with someone to drive getaway she might be able to not even have to actually give up the fuel pod. The War Rig's tank is large enough that she can make the trip without, but it would be a huge advantage to have the pod along.

  
  


It's difficult to get a message to the Vault, and Furiosa hadn't planned to have any more contact with the girls before the night of the escape, but she needs to let them know that with the last deal slotted into place they'll need to be ready to leave.

She wonders, as she slips the scrap of paper under the platter meant to be sent for the Wives' dinner, if Angharad had shared what the ceremony she was called down for entailed. If they all know that Furiosa is no longer untouchable and safe but reduced to her most base commodity like they have been.

She hopes not.

  
  


She stops bleeding, and while she stretches the days as much as she can, the morning ritual resumes.

Furiosa hate every aspect of it, from the way her body buzzes with unwanted arousal in anticipation to how the slick seed feels inside her to the way the Organic gloats after pulling her apart; hates especially that it's become almost mundane, expected. It's the way she doesn't forget anymore that her left hand is missing- as terrible as it is, it's just a part of her life, now.

  
  


The trade run to the Bullet Farm goes smoothly, routine. Ace hangs off the side of the door when he's not up with the rest of the Boys, chattering away about the road and the way the Rig is running and how the crew is working and whether there'll be any trouble or not. It's so familiar and easy that Furiosa lets herself miss it, just a little.

There's a small skirmish on the way back, as if they haven't just stocked up on artillery- should have tried when they were loaded with produce, she thinks. Only three of her Boys die, snapped up from the back of their bikes, another two injured enough that she doesn't think they'll be fit to ride the next trade run, even if it's nearly sixty days out.

They're praised on their return and Furiosa bows her head and salutes like she's supposed to, makes sure the injured crew have someone alert to watch over them when they're in the Skin Shop.

She works to clean the War Rig, but the energy that's thrumming through her from the battle isn't the sort that's content with brushing away sand and grease, hammering bent metal into place. In the past she might have gone to the pits to wrestle away the tension, or found someone up to trade paint, but neither are real options anymore. There's no official ban on Imperators using the fight pits, but it's an unspoken understanding; and of course the only person she can fuck anymore is the wastelander penned up in her quarters.

The restlessness stays with her until she throws down the rag she was holding in frustration, snaps off a few unnecessary orders to get the Rig seen to properly, and stalks back to her quarters.

The wastelander's at her workbench when she arrives, fiddling through a box of mismatched ammo, and he turns to her when the door opens. Furiosa can't decipher the expression on his face- some shade of relieved to see her back, maybe. She wonders what use they'd find for him if she had died- a blood-bag, maybe, or mill rat. Nothing as cushy as being a breeder, she's sure.

“Run okay?” he asks, even though she wouldn't be here if it hadn't gone just fine.

She doesn't bother to respond, thinking instead of the offer he'd made days ago, how it wasn't “fair” for her not to get any pleasure out of the arrangement. There's no way Furiosa is going to let him fuck her but he was right about the unbalance, and she looks at his mouth, stupidly plush for someone living off the wastes, feels the thrum of energy from the run in her veins and thinks...

He looks confused by her silence, brow furrowing and those lips pursing just a bit, hands leaving the last of the bullets.

“You can leave,” Furiosa says, because this was one of the few things that either of them has control over, at the moment, “But I'm going to make myself come.” The wastelander's eyes go wide with surprise, dart across her body as if pulled to it. The very tip of his tongue swipes out to wet his lips. “If you stay, you can help.”

His eyes settle on hers after a moment and he nods, and Furiosa would have gotten herself off on her own just fine but this is good, this is almost like picking up someone just for a post-mission fuck. She bars the door behind her and thinks about getting on the mattress, but all the better memories she has of tumbling around on it are subsumed by the phantom burn she feels, the flash of seeing the wastelander pulled carefully away from her as much as he's able while he finishes, the stink of the Organic's coat.

“Off the chair,” she says instead, and to her surprise the man doesn't move to stand- he slides off and onto the floor, kneeling. And that's- that's even better.

Furiosa takes the seat, warmed from his body, plants her feet against the floor and settles so she can lean back against the edge of the workbench if she wants. Ignores the wastelander for the moment and loosens her trousers just enough to slip her flesh hand down inside, where the adrenaline and rhythm of the engine and pulse of excitement has her wet and aching sweetly.

The first orgasm is always a struggle, like her body doesn't want to fully ignite, but she shifts against the hard wood of the stool underneath her and circles and presses with her fingers and lets her breathing get short and quick as she thinks of an amalgam of hands and bodies from better days and- _there_. Tension unspools from her and she sighs as her muscles clench and release and she slumps a little further back against the bench.

Furiosa opens her eyes and the wastelander is watching her, eyes dark, hands flat against the meat of his thighs like he's proving he won't reach out and touch without her permission, like he doesn't trust himself not to otherwise.

“You any good with your mouth?” she asks, because she already knows from watching him work on the Rig that he's probably pretty decent with his hands.

The man swallows heavily, nods.

She shimmies out of her leathers, draws them just far enough down her legs for his head to reasonably fit inside, shifts so she's closer to the edge of the stool. He fumbles a bit, shuffling close enough, but then she hooks her knees over his shoulders on either side of his head and he dips forward to _lick_ , wet and warm.

“That's it,” Furiosa says in encouragement, draws her own hand away from her cunt once he's found her clit. He _is_ good with his mouth, she discovers, and enthusiastic about proving it.

The wastelander licks and sucks her to a second orgasm that has her moaning, metal hand clamped around the edge of the table for leverage as her hips buck up against his mouth, flesh one drawing away from keeping his head in place to play with her nipples through her shirt.

He brings up one of his hands and she tenses, gets ready to kick him away- but he only circles and teases and rubs, doesn't try and fuck into her with his fingers. She hates that she's grateful for it, grateful that he's guessed she wouldn't want it, hates that ordinarily she _would_ want his fingers inside but she doesn't think she can stand it now, not after what she's been forced to do.

The wastelander seems content to work at her until she's come again, and again, until she finally does push him away with a shaky “Enough, now.”

His face is reddened and a little shiny from her wet cunt, mouth swollen. If this was a man she's invited in to trade paint she'd pull him up for a kiss, would lick the taste of herself off his lips and then maybe have him fuck her, or return the favor with her own mouth. But he's not, so she only draws her legs away and refastens her trousers, the vibrant tension that had been humming in her satisfied.

The wastelander doesn't move when she draws herself back to her feet other than to rub idly at the slick trapped in his facial hair, and she wonders if- but she can see that he's hard inside his leathers, even if his other hand isn't anywhere near his groin.

“You can finish yourself off,” Furiosa tells him, because maybe he doesn't think he has permission, or something. And even if an entire night somehow _isn't_ enough for him to recharge and get it up again for their morning inspection- well, a single aberration after faithfully fucking for the last thirty-odd days wouldn't be enough for the Organic to demand her brought to the Breeder's Court.

He shrugs in answer, and Furiosa doesn't really care enough to pursue the issue, leaves the wastelander to his own devices while she gets ready to sleep, energy finally run out.

  
  


On a routine patrol run Furiosa takes the wastelander with her, sitting in the seat usually left empty- Ace prefers to rove, even when they were only taking out buggies instead of the War Rig. Her crew is wary, ready for the wastelander to act like the feral he's supposed to be, but though his eyes go sharp with longing at finally seeing the outside of the Citadel he behaves.

She could have simply installed him in the Rig the day of the escape, but such a change would draw attention, the last thing she needed. Let the War Boys whisper what they wanted about her going breeder-soft, about how unfair it was that some scav was given such favor. None of it mattered if only there was no suspicion the day of the trade run.

  
  


Furiosa doesn't pay much attention to scuffling War Boys as a rule, unless they were in danger of hurting her rig or her crew. She recognizes the wastelander's voice though, loud and rough in anger, and that has her sliding back out from under the car she was working on to see what the matter is.

He's been piled-on in one of the through-ways by Morsov and Ace and Krank, the three of them not looking like they were attacking but holding him in place, no opponent to be seen.

“Boss!” Ace calls out when he catches sight of her, jerks his head to bring her over.

“What's going on?” Furiosa asks, the wastelander stilling as she approaches, coiled and tense.

“Started yellin' about a car,” Ace says, and she wonders if he's snapped after his taste of the outside and decided to try splitting now after all.

“It's mine,” the wastelander growls, and Furiosa follows the line of his eyes to see the last of a car being wheeled from the Chop Shop to the storage garages. She can't tell which it is- there's a caltrop rig attached to the back of it, but she's never worked much with those vehicles.

She turns back to him and he's no longer fighting the hold of the crew though his eyes are fixed on the retreating car, Ace loosening his hands already.

“I'll handle this,” she tells them, and Krank and Morsov looks uneasy but obey, stepping away. The wastelander immediately surges away, towards where the car was being towed, but Furiosa had anticipated the movement. She swings her prosthesis so the metal struts of it land heavily against his throat, pushes off with her weight to turn his momentum so he's stumbling instead with his back to the wall.

The wastelander struggles for a moment before subsiding, growls out, “That's my car.”

“It won't do you any good,” Furiosa says, “You're five hundred feet up, surrounded by War Boys.”

He finally takes his eyes off where the car disappeared past, flicks them to her face. She lowers her voice enough that the audience won't be able to hear, says, “You can have that car or you can have freedom.”

“It's mine,” he says, a little desperate, almost a whine.

“Your car or your freedom,” Furiosa repeats, laying her arms off him entirely and stepping back. The wastelander glares at her and looks for a moment like he really does mean to charge after the car anyway, but then breathes out heavily and turns away.

“Crazy fucking feral,” Krank scoffs when the commotion is over, “He rides one patrol and thinks he gets his own wheels?”

“Back to work,” Furiosa says, keeping one eye on the wastelander in case he does intend to make a go of it. But he only sullenly picks back up the work he'd been doing, a tense sort of defeat in the lines of his body.

  
  


The full moon comes again, and she doesn't bleed. Furiosa knows that her courses don't follow any strict pattern and never have, but the Organic grins and talks about it as if she's pregnant for sure and she knows she isn't, knows he's lying, but the horror and disgust at her body's imagined betrayal has her shaking and biting her cheek so hard that coppery blood fills her mouth.

“Just in case” of course, he won't let her stop fucking the wastelander.

  
  


The second patrol run the wastelander joins her on, they run down a scav out near the western edge of their territory. It's a rustbucket of a car but it'll be towed back anyway to salvage what they can, and Furiosa takes one look at the driver and knows he'll be fit for the Treadmill if he's lucky, fighting for rations in the pits if he's not.

“The Organic will process him,” she tells the wastelander as they drive back, her crew cheering triumphantly around them at the capture, as if it matters, as if he doesn't already know. “Most likely he'll be down with the Wretched by nightfall.”

He makes a frustrated noise, likely wondering why _he_ couldn't have been turned loose, even if he's seen the Wretched and what conditions they live in by now. One of his hands clenches down around the gun he'd grabbed at the appearance of the scav, like he's thinking about turning it to her head and wresting control of the steering wheel away, but he only sits in silence.

Patrols aren't as big a thrill, capture or no, but Furiosa still feels the buzz itching under her skin, hyped up with the threat of how much she stands to lose. When they return to her quarters she gives the wastelander the option of leaving or helping again. He stays, just as he had the time after her trade run, works his mouth against her until all the vicious leftover energy is spent and she feels dully hollow inside instead.

  
  


She bleeds again as the moon shades dark, and Furiosa had _known_ she hadn't been pregnant but the confirmation is still overwhelming. The wastelander doesn't say anything but the matching relief on his face is clear as day.

  
  


There's a scouting run that turns up a bust, intel turning into nothing but a ghost camp long since sanded-over. On the way back a quick but vicious dogfight with an enterprising Buzzard has her thrumming again, the wastelander besides her firing off gunshots with steady precision while she cuts the wheel to trap the rust-spiked vehicle between the press of her crew's cars to be taken out.

Once the cars are back in the garage to be cleaned and assessed for repairs she slants her gaze over to him, questioning, and sees a mirror of her own restless energy there.

She does kiss him that time, when his swollen mouth is smeared with red blood and he's wrung a devastating roll of orgasms out of her, uncaring how bad an idea it is in her elation to still be her own person, to still have time. He kisses as well as she'd expect, considering the attention he paid to her cunt, but when she pulls away his expression is rigidly static, strange and unreadable.

  
  


The Organic only inspects her every few days, now. They can't skip because there's no way to tell which days it's going to be- three in a row, every other, there's no pattern to it. Furiosa forgets to scrape herself empty one day, leaves the wastelander's cum inside her until she's pissing mid-afternoon and realizes that there's enough left to drip still, and the fact that she doesn't immediately feel sick is what disturbs her the most.

She's truly become resigned to it, she realizes numbly. There's no way to get herself completely clean anyway, no guarantee that trying is even bettering her odds at all.

  
  


Every patrol run, every time that itch of energy runs through her, Furiosa gives the wastelander the option of leaving the room or helping. He looks conflicted, but never takes the option of waiting in the hall, always works to bring her off without so much as touching himself in return.

It's foolish to keep doing it and she knows, she _knows_ that she's all but tying her own noose with it, but it's only fair that she gets something out of the situation. And she wants to hate the wastelander for allowing her to be weak but she hates Joe more for putting her in this position, hates everything about it until she has to fight back bitter scorching tears in the dark of night.

  
  


The worst part is, in the garages during the day, when he's riding besides her on a patrol, when they're going over the details of the plan in her quarters- the wastelander is the sort of person she would have wanted on her crew. Would have met as free people on the road and invited him to her bed for the pleasure of it. He's haunted and angry and explosive but his hands are steady, his eye quick, his brain full of things that are interesting or useful or clever.

If they had met under different circumstances, Furiosa thinks... But they hadn't.

  
  


The eve of the trade run arrives and for the crew it's just another long day of triple-checking everything being in place, for Furiosa an exercise in protracted torture as she does her best to act completely normal, to arouse no suspicion.

“I'll be back at sunrise,” she tells the wastelander when they're back in her room, War Rig ready to be loaded onto the lifts in the morning.

He cocks his head to the side, already halfway to settling into his blanket nest. “Shouldn't you sleep?”

She's told him about the Green Place, about the Many Mothers and how she was stolen away, but she hasn't told him about the Wives, how she's stealing them right back. It was supposed to be nothing more than a final “fuck you” to Joe, taking what was most precious to him in addition to a chunk of resources, but it's far more than that, by now, and she thinks if she tries to even broach the topic she'll spill over.

“There's some last details,” she says, and he frowns because it's not much of an answer but nods in acceptance anyway after a moment. It's not like she would have _not_ gone, had he tried persuading her.

Getting a note into the Vault is difficult, getting a person in nearly impossible, and getting someone out- if anyone's managed it before now, Furiosa hasn't heard of it.

A great deal of her planning has gone towards this task alone. She's bribed and threatened and lied and manipulated schedules and it all comes to fruition when the great door of the Vault is left unattended in the dark, exactly as she needs.

The steel door is too well-maintained to creak open, starlight from the huge glass dome spilling across the arched entryway. The girls are circled around their water pool, such a vision of decadence and security that Furiosa almost thinks better of taking them away, before Angharad shifts and the starlight catches on the curved rim of her belly.

“Furiosa!” Angharad says when she sees her, quietly so as not to carry through the cracked-open door behind her. “Is it tonight, then?” She stands from the pool and walks over, bare feet leaving dark wet marks on the stone.

Furiosa nods in answer, “If there's anything you want to take with you, get it quickly.”

“We're not taking any of _his_ poisoned gifts,” the Dag says, arms wrapped protectively around the youngest of them.

She hadn't thought that there would be much worth taking, anyway. Books were useful only as kindling out on the sands, the pretty decorations littered around the Vault utterly without purpose.

“Capable, the paint,” Angharad says, turning from Furiosa to address one of the others.

“We don't have time,” Furiosa says as the girl procures a bucket of liquid white from somewhere, a bundle of rag brushes. Whatever it is they're planning- some message to Joe, surely- there's only so much time she was able to secure.

“There's time enough for this,” Angharad says firmly, siphoning a measure of paint for herself and gesturing for Furiosa to follow as she walks through to one of the bedrooms. She dips the rag into the paint and starts swiping over the wall in broad strokes, writing. As Furiosa watches, the words “WE ARE NOT THINGS” appears on the stone, stark white in the starlight.

“You're not a thing either,” Angharad says when she's finished, and it's a reminder of the time spent guarding them, listening to them debate and rail against their captivity, a reminder of the ill purposes they all have been used for. “I didn't tell the others,” she says, “Joe talked some about his new brood of Imperators and they may have put it together from that, but it's for you to share or not.”

Furiosa says nothing, glad to have at least an illusion of her former invulnerability and sick to her core for that gladness.

The other girls are finished writing when they return to the main room, hugging and tearfully kissing Miss Giddy. “You'll be brave,” she tells them, “Wordburger: 'I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along'.”

“You really won't come?” Toast asks, rubbing over the tattooed skin of her arm as if she can absorb the words directly.

“I wouldn't last a minute,” Miss Giddy replies with a sad smile. “Besides, I'd like to see the look on the old bastard's face.”

“He might kill you,” Furiosa feels compelled to point out. True, she was probably too frail to survive the escape after hundreds of days in the sheltered Vault, but death found in the pursuit of freedom seemed the better option.

“So he might,” Miss Giddy agrees. “He'll find me no lamb for the altar, though.” The Vuvalini would have been glad to meet her, Furiosa thinks, but there's no more time to waste trying to persuade the old woman.

“This is your last chance to stay,” Furiosa tells the girls, waiting for any of them to show second thoughts, but their faces are resolute. “Follow and do as I say.” They pull their white wrappings close around them and fall silent, and she tries not to feel as if she is doing anything more than stealing when she leads them down through the labyrinth.

  
  


She returns to her quarters before daybreak, the Wives safely ensconced in the belly of the War Rig and no one knows, not even the wastelander, and the thrill and feral satisfaction and terrible fear of how badly it can all still go has her heart pounding with relentless energy.

The wastelander is awake when she opens the door, head tilted against the wall in thought only to roll forward at the noise of her entering. Furiosa is sure that the Organic will inspect her in the morning, to remind her of how she's only driving the War Rig on borrowed time.

The real victory would be if they defied the OM- and she can picture what excuses she might use, to explain a single day of not following orders- but she thinks about how much pleasure the medic gets from humiliating her, thinks about how her traitorous body _wants_ regardless, thinks about how long it's been since she had a proper fuck.

There's not much time left before the sun rises and they have to go through the motions, and there's every chance that they'll all die during this escape attempt, anyway.

Furiosa knows that it's a bad idea. But she still says, “One last fuck for the road?”

The wastelander looks surprised, eyebrows high on his forehead, but Furiosa waits it out. He'd made something like the offer before, and they had to go through with this in some fashion anyway, and she thinks she'd like to know how it feels to actually have sex with him, to have him touch her and get her hand on his skin in return.

“We're leaving,” he says, not quite a question but suspicious almost.

“Everything's in place,” Furiosa replies, makes no move to approach him or the bed but leans a hip against the edge of the workbench. “Either we'll be free or we'll be dead by the end of the day.”

It's probably true enough for him, at least. Furiosa isn't so sure the Organic won't force her to become a breeder, should she get captured alive- all the more reason to go down fighting.

The wastelander visibly thinks it over for a long moment before he nods. “What did- what do you want?” he asks, standing up from his nest of blankets, taking an almost cautious step towards her.

“Get over here and kiss me,” Furiosa replies, and when he complies it feels somehow illicit to kiss him when he hasn't just had his mouth buried in her cunt, when it's just the taste of his own lips and she's not riding a high of orgasm to excuse herself.

It's playing with fire but the low thrum under her skin ignites deliciously into desire when she lets her hand move to feel his chest, when his own hands land warm on the curve of her waist, the line of her jaw. She can feel the muscles of him shift as he moves, the expansion of his chest and the beat of his heart speeding up, and she gets her hand down between fabric and skin and wonders what he actually looks like.

“Take off your shirt?” she asks, and is surprised when he removes his hands to pull it off, leaves him bare skinned for her to take in. It seems ridiculous that she's had his cock inside of her and his mouth on her for nearly a hundred days but has never seen his torso uncovered before, seems ridiculous that he's willing to let go of even a single layer of protection.

There's scars, of course, the remnants of burns and gunshots and stabbings and all the myriad things that spell death for the unlucky. Furiosa slides her palm across his chest, fingers catching on little gnarls of scar tissue over firm muscle, reaches her metal hand up to the back of his neck, covering his brand from sight as if that makes either of them free, and takes him in another kiss.

She's not surprised to find him growing hard already when she sways into him, and she thinks that maybe she'll flash to the breedings at the feel of it but she doesn't, and that's relief enough to have her bring her flesh hand down to his ass, encourage him to move in closer.

“How do you want,” the wastelander says, a little breathless, voice low and rough enough to have her shiver, hips twitching forward against his. Furiosa has to think about it, because the stool wasn't an option and she's not going to get into that bed for this and his nest on the floor wasn't appealing and they were of a height but she doesn't think standing would do his knee any favors.

“Sit on the bench,” she says, because she's pretty sure that it's sturdy enough for the both of them. The wastelander hums in response, the noise vibrating through his entire chest where she's pressed up close.

The work surface is just awkwardly high enough that his feet dangle a little when he sits on the edge of it, not quite able to reach the floor. Furiosa steps between his spread legs to kiss him again, finds the angle's changed with his head suddenly a shade taller than hers.

“Can I,” he says, and then pauses, and she pulls away to see his face because she doesn't know what he's asking. The wastelander licks his lips and his face is flushed red and one of his hands moves so it's cupping her breast. “Your shirt,” he says.

Taking off the shirt means taking off her prosthesis, and Furiosa wants to keep the reassurance of it. She shakes her head and he looks disappointed, but only nods in acceptance. And she thinks for a moment maybe next time- but there won't _be_ a next time. And hell, if the man wants to see her without her shirt before potentially dying...

Furiosa pulls away to unbuckle the strapping, ignoring the quiet protests the wastelander is attempting to string together. The arm she lowers to the floor carefully, far enough to the side that she thinks it won't be stepped on, the middle brace she unlaces with hasty fingers and lets fall before gracelessly climbing onto the bench to plant herself astride his legs.

He picks up quickly enough that he's meant to be the one to take off the final layer of worn cloth, and then they're a matching set of bared vulnerable skin. The wastelander leans up to kiss her, surprisingly soft, then kisses and licks and nips his way down the line of her throat, her chest, until his mouth joins his hands on her breasts.

She moans and pushes into it because it feels good, something she only rarely lets partners do- plenty of War Boys didn't care, or cared only when they thought she might be a milker, and plenty times more she wouldn't let herself be so exposed to find out in the first place.

Furiosa grinds her hips down against where she can feel him hard through their trousers, stump wrapped around the back of his neck to encourage him closer, hand stuttering over strangely raised skin on his back. He keeps one hand kneading and playing with the breast his mouth isn't working, the other cupping her ass warm and firm, encouraging the way her hips are rolling.

She thinks she won't come from just this, no matter how the ridge of his cock has the thick seam of her leathers pressing deliciously against her clit, but then he rubs his beard against the nipple he'd been attacking and the contrast on her sensitized skin is shocking and just enough. Furiosa loses her breath in a gasp as an orgasm runs through her, startling, and she digs her nails into his back unthinkingly only to have him moan in turn, the noise vibrating through her.

It's almost a surprise how much she wants his cock inside her, considering how much she normally dreads it.

The laces of his trousers are easy to undo and then he's helping her shove her own leathers down and away, until Furiosa grabs the base of his dick to hold it ready for her and sinks down onto it in one smooth wet glide.

She never let herself- never wanted to, in the first place- appreciate the feel of his cock, but it's different now. She's letting herself take pleasure in this, in feeling him hot and firm and filling inside her.

For a moment she just rests, squeezing down around the wastelander's cock and enjoying the pressure of it against her inner walls until he makes a weak noise and she looks to see him hazy-eyed and pleading, so different from what she's grown used to expecting. Furiosa leans in and kisses him before starting to move her hips, circling around to find the right angle for him to hit her g-spot, has to break away from his mouth to gasp when it lines up and electric heat runs down her spine.

The wastelander keeps one arm wrapped around her back, supportive and steadying, the other snaking down to touch her clit and she moans as he picks up the rhythm.

And the thing is, Furiosa knows she shouldn't be doing this. She'd thought that maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea but in the face of it, of knowing that it's not anything like the act of defiance she wishes it was, she knows it for a mistake. A mistake like allowing herself to bond with her crew, like being weak enough to have the wastelander lick her out, like not saying planning be damned and stealing whatever engine she could to fang it for the horizon the day the order came through.

She fucks him and enjoys it, thinks he's enjoying it too, thinks that he'll have to spill his seed deep inside and it'll stay there until the Organic checks, thinks that maybe she will end up pregnant after all and it would be okay because she's going to be returning to her Mothers.

Furiosa shakes her way to another orgasm, hips rutting hard against the wastelander inside her, closes her eyelids and tips her head back because she can feel the beginnings of tears pickle at her eyes and she refuses, she refuses to let them fall.

Her spasming cunt must be enough to tip the wastelander over because he jerks sharply underneath her, makes the sort of low groan that she's learned means he's coming. The sticky rush fills her up and she doesn't immediately pull away but kisses him again, eyes still firmly shut, and thinks that as far as last times go at least it wasn't so bad.

  
  


The run is brutal and devastating and _perfect_ , and Furiosa doesn't let herself regret any of it.

  


**Author's Note:**

> The quote Miss Giddy recites is from Eleanor Roosevelt ([Full quote here](https://www.gwu.edu/~erpapers/abouteleanor/er-quotes/), midway down the page)
> 
> Feel free to angrily yell at me [on tumblr](http://v8roadworrier.tumblr.com)!


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